Skull and Cross
by Nate Grey
Summary: There are precious few Hogwarts students, past or present, who have ever heard of Credence Barebone. Mostly because the overwhelming majority know him by another name. No better way to fade into Obscurity, than to do it in plain sight.


Notes: Apparently Credence Barebone becomes someone notable in the HP Universe. This story assumes that he does so under another name. And I, for one, can think of only one suspect, unlikely as they may be. Be aware that this is not at all meant to be taken too seriously, although if manages to plug a few holes that you didn't even know were there, so be it.

Summary: There are precious few Hogwarts students, past or present, who have ever heard of Credence Barebone. Mostly because the overwhelming majority know him by another name. No better way to fade into Obscurity, than to do it in plain sight.

* * *

 **Skull and Cross**

 **A Harry Potter/Fantastic Beasts Crossover by**

 **Nate Grey (xman0123-at-aol-dot-com)**

* * *

The blood in his throat made it hard to talk. Also, he was fairly certain that necks weren't made to bend that way. But he wanted to be clear.

"Let me die," he whispered.

They acted as if they couldn't hear him. They were casting spell after spell in an obvious attempt to save him. He could feel bones mending, cuts closing, blood rushing back inside.

He had been so certain that the fall would kill him instantly. But his body was clearly made of tougher stuff than even he realized. He now believed Newt Scamander's claims, that he was exceptional, and far more powerful than any other of his kind.

Not that it mattered much now.

"Let me die."

He felt Porpentina Goldstein's hands on either side of his head. "Don't try to talk, Credence. Just let us help you. Save your strength."

In direct defiance of that request, he threw most of his strength into trying to twist his neck even further. His body didn't respond beyond a twitch, which she mistook for acceptance of her plea.

Newt's wand slashed before his eyes, creating a shimmering magical field, no doubt intended to preserve a wounded subject.

"Let me die," Credence said again.

He was certain that Newt heard and understood, from the way he paused and stared. But then Newt's gaze went to Porpentina, and Credence finally understood.

Newt didn't want Credence to die. But he also _needed_ Credence not to die, because Credence dying would kill Porpentina, slowly but surely. She had already thrown her career away for him once. She cared that much.

And Credence _hated_ her, now. Because he wanted to die, but she wouldn't let him. And for what? Because she felt guilty? Because it was right?

Right had died a long time ago in Credence's world. With his birth mother, and then with his adopted mother, and then again with his adopted sister Chastity.

 _Everything_ died early in Credence's world. Except these two, who insisted on pursuing him, in a misguided attempt to save him.

But Credence didn't want to be saved. He was already cursed, and there was no fixing that. The kindest thing would be to let him die, so that he could finally get some peace. Yet the kindness they offered was cursing him to continue to live.

How could they be so cruel, and not even realize it?

* * *

With awareness came pain. Not the worst Credence had ever felt, but more than enough where comfort seemed a thing that happened solely to other people.

The room was entirely white: the sheets on the bed, the walls, the floor, the ceiling.

Something was wrong.

Something _felt_ wrong.

Before, even at the best of times, he often felt like a pot of boiling water. But now... now the pot felt bone-dry. As if half of him was just... gone.

It wasn't a pleasant feeling.

A door opened somewhere nearby. He sensed them before they appeared. And even when they did appear, he had no interest in looking at them. He knew what they looked like. He would never, could never forget, the faces of the people who hadn't let him die.

Porpentina was talking. Credence wasn't listening. He was staring at his hands, which barely felt like his anymore.

She grasped his left hand abruptly. He allowed this, because it didn't matter.

She was crying. He couldn't decide if she were happy, sad, or both at the same time.

And it wasn't like he cared how she felt.

Then Newt started talking. Credence was more inclined to listen to him, because Newt had never struck him as being overly emotional, at least not with people. Initially, Credence even suspected that Newt's concern for him was purely as a researcher studying a particularly rare creature. That would have been slightly more acceptable, all things considered.

But Newt was, Credence thought, just emotional enough to care, but not enough to be smothering... unless Porpentina was involved, which she unfortunately was, and likely always would be.

"You drained yourself to the absolute limits of your magical power," Newt was saying. "Combined with the fall you suffered-"

Was it still a fall, when you stepped off willingly?

"-you would have surely died, if we hadn't intervened."

Why, oh _why_ , had they intervened?

"But with your body barely able to hold itself together, there was no way you could hope to contain the enormous energies of your Obscurial transformation any longer. You would have literally ripped yourself apart."

A fitting end for a sinner, no, a monster, such as him. If only he'd thought to try it earlier.

"Luckily, I am the only wizard that I know of that has so far been able to extract an Obscurus from a host intact. I was too late to save the host the last time, but, I think, due to your extraordinary resilience and will to live-"

He must have thrown that last part in for Porpentina's sake, Credence decided. Yes, a glance at her proved that she was smiling through her tears. He quickly lost interest in her again.

"-you were the only Obscurial who could survive the operation."

Wait. _That_ was why he felt so strange, so empty. Newt had... he had _dared_ to...

Why, oh why, hadn't they just let him _die_?

"Already, I've received demands that I destroy your Obscurus. But even now, I can tell that it is still linked to you. I know of no way to safely sever that bond, and even if I did, I would not dare to. I don't believe that your Obscurus would die, at least not immediately. It could easily prove just as exceptional as you, and the damage it could do before its end... I believe you are still the only one who has any hope of containing it."

Newt gestured with his hand, and Credence tensed as a large bubble floated into view. Within it was a black, inky mass, constantly thrashing... at least, until it neared Credence. The black mass stilled, becoming little more than an inky cloud. He raised a hand experimentally, and the mass shifted at once, following his motions, mimicking the movements of his fingers exactly.

This was his power, given form outside of his body. It was weaker now, whatever Newt had done had seen to that. But it was still his, and it needed him.

He _needed_ it.

And there had been enough separation already.

Without warning, Credence's fingers twitched, and the mass erupted from the bubble.

Porpentina screamed and jerked back as the black mass landed on Credence's chest, flowed over his skin, reached up to his face.

Credence closed his eyes, reveling in the feel of it sliding across his skin. " _Mine_ ," he sighed.

Newt's wand was in his hand, but when it became obvious that Credence was not in danger, he lowered it. "You must hide, Credence. The wizarding public will not accept you as you are. You will continue to be hunted, and in this state, you cannot hope to defend yourself. Your Obscurus now represents the entirety of your magic. You have almost none within your body itself."

This did not bother Credence. He hadn't known how to use magic through his body, anyway. And he was used to hiding what he was.

"I know a place where you can hide," Newt said slowly. "You'll be safe there. And even if you were discovered, no matter who came for you, they could not touch you."

Porpentina seemed distressed. "Newt, you can't know for sure that-"

"I know."

"But you haven't even talked to-"

"He won't refuse me. Not on this. He couldn't, even if he wanted to."

Credence closed his eyes and began to fall asleep. He didn't care if they argued. He had all he needed. If Newt would go this far to save him, there would be no danger for a while.

Once he was delivered to safety... then he could choose his time to die.

* * *

"I don't know how much Newt Scamander told you about this place, but there are some things you should know before-"

"Did he tell you," Credence interrupted, watching the black mass revolve lazily around his left arm, "that I want to die?"

The old man gave Credence a sad stare. "Ah. He did, indeed. And I suppose that you will tell me that there is nothing I can say to change your mind?"

"Nothing," Credence whispered.

"Perhaps I will be more successful, Professor," said a soft voice behind him, and Credence's world crawled to a stop as he spun around to face the last person he had expected to see walking toward him.

"Modesty?" he breathed, even as his youngest sister's small hand grasped his right arm.

"Hello, Credence," she whispered as he stared her in shock. She did not smile, merely clutched the book in her other hand a little tighter.

"I thought... that you feared me," he murmured, lowering his head in shame.

"Oh, I do," she confirmed.

He flinched and tried to pull away from her grasp, but she wouldn't let him go.

"But I fear being alone even more," Modesty told him. "And when you left, I was alone. At least, until Miss Goldstein found me. She promised me that she would find you for me, and so she did."

Credence's eyes widened in shock. That was why? That was why Porpentina wouldn't let him die? For Modesty's sake? And he had almost... He hadn't even stopped to consider that she might... He had just assumed that she would want nothing to do with him, after he had...

"Chastity," he whispered, tears streaming from his eyes. "I killed-"

"Did you hate her?" Modesty asked at once.

"No!"

"Did you _want_ her to die?"

"NO!"

"Mr. Scamander told me," Modesty said. "When an Obscurus kills someone, really means to kill them, it marks their face. Chastity's face wasn't marked. It's true that she died due to your actions, but if you had meant to kill her, it would have been immediately obvious." She looked deep into his eyes. "And you _need_ to know, Credence, that if there had been a single one of those marks on my sister's face, I would see no difference between you and the monster that took her from me." After a lengthy pause, she drew back slightly. "But there were _no such marks_. So I still consider you my brother. One that left me behind to face the world alone and nearly got himself killed more than once, but still my brother. And I hope that you still see me as your sister?"

He nodded, unable to form words after what she'd said.

Her eyes narrowed. "You feel guilt, I see. And you _should_. But you dying won't erase your sins, Credence. It certainly wouldn't help me, either. It would leave me all alone in the world. And haven't I just said that's what I fear the most? More than I fear you now?"

"What would you have me do?" Credence asked.

"Live here, with me," she said simply. "Let that be your penance, since you seem so eager to die. Learn to live with what you've done. With what you almost did to me in your rush to die." Modesty paused, and then did something he never would have expected: she slowly reached out to touch the black mass swirling around his arm, which stilled at once. "If you can do that, then I think I can learn to live with... this. It is part of you. And I can't bear to lose you again."

He didn't even need to think about it. "I will stay," Credence said to the Professor.

"Excellent," the older man responded. "As I'm sure Newt Scamander told you, we cannot allow the authorities to know that you are here. You will need to take on new identities. Agent Goldstein has also assured me that she is happy to assist in whatever way is necessary. I will do the same. We will need a hefty bit of Transfiguration to get thing started. Miss Barebone, I'm told you've been preparing for this?"

"Yes, sir." To Credence's shock, Modesty produced a wand.

"You can't do magic," Credence said at once.

"I thought the same thing, when I first came here," she admitted. "And even though the Professor explained it to me, I still don't quite understand it. But... there's something in the air, here. Magic, I suppose? But I can feel it. And so long as I feel it, I can do things. Things I could only imagine doing before. Things that I suspect I can't do anywhere else." She stared hard at her wand. After a moment, the tip seemed to explode, showering the room in black rose petals. But as they came into contact with any solid surface, they instantly vanished.

"Quite stylish," the Professor said approvingly. "As I understand your unique situation, your reserves of magical power are very small. You instinctively gather magical power from your surroundings. So it is indeed accurate to say that you can only do magic in a place such as this, where magic is in the air itself. You could not do magic before, because there was none in excess to draw upon. At least, not that you were aware of. Had you known your brother's secret then, it might have been a different story. But now that you do know it, and his Obscurus is not hostile towards you, I believe you are the only other person who might be able to safely draw on its power. And you may need to, if conditions within the grounds should ever change for the worst."

Modesty looked up into Credence's face. "Mr. Scamander told that me that your power has been severely decreased, because of the operation. But, maybe, now that you're here, the school can do for you what it did for me?"

"This is... a magic school?" Credence asked in surprise.

"A school of witchcraft and wizardry," the Professor added. "Your sister learned to use magic for the first time here. Perhaps, Mr. Barebone, you can learn something here, as well. We have been training young magic users for quite some time here. If you can stay here with your sister, and still learn nothing, I would be most disappointed, in us."

"Why would you want to help _me_?" Credence asked. "Modesty, I could understand, she is innocent. But I have-"

"There was once a girl, much like you," the Professor interrupted. "Overflowing with incredible power that she had no hope of controlling on her own, and yet, for those closest to her, for those who truly loved her? She was merely a sweet girl who drew a horrible lot in life. She received no training, and her family did its best to keep her safe and hidden. It did not end well for anyone involved. I swore that, faced with the same situation, I would not allow that tragedy to repeat itself. This power has already cost you part of your family, Mr. Barebone. Don't you think it's time you took steps to ensure that it does not cost you what you have left?"

* * *

Hours later, with the Professor's words still ringing in his ears, Credence glanced around at the small, admittedly comfortable quarters he'd been given. Of course, his comfort was based entirely on the fact that it was his, to keep and arrange in whatever way he wished, and that Modesty was just next door... not that he had any intention of disturbing her.

It still amazed him, the magic that she was capable of, and she had quite enjoyed showing it off to him. He'd known of her interest in magic, and he could only assume that Chastity had encouraged Modesty's sudden fondness for reading. He'd seen a large stack of textbooks in her room, and it didn't surprise him to learn that she'd be assisting in the library. He, on the other hand, would be a janitor of sorts. This did not bother him, much. The majority of his human contact would be with the school staff, who either had been told of his situation or memory charmed with his new history, he wasn't sure which option the Professor had chosen in the end.

And the change.

When Modesty had shown him her new form, he had been stunned. But seeing the one she'd chosen for him, that had nearly caused him to faint. And yet, he could see the wisdom in it: no one who had known him as Credence Barebone would ever make the connection.

Frowning thoughtfully, he stared down at the black mass, still revolving slowly around his arm. Modesty had executed the change several times, to get him used to the shift, but he would need to be capable of it on his own, in case they ever got separated.

"Remember what the Professor said," he muttered. "Hogwarts responds to those who call it home, and helps those who need it."

He thought of how Modesty approached spellwork, drawing magic from the air around her. He did not strictly have to do the same, but the Professor had been clear: he was in the school's service now, and it would respond to him accordingly.

"Help me," he whispered, closing his eyes, and he felt the power flowing over him, though how much came from his other self, or the air, he could not say.

When he opened his eyes, he saw the shape that black mass had assumed, and knew it had worked. Indeed, as he turned his head, he felt as if a blueprint of the school had implanted itself in the back of his mind: he knew the locations of rooms and passages that neither the Professor nor Modesty had even mentioned yet. He had everything he needed to carry out his new job.

"Shall we get started, my sweet?" he croaked, chuckling as he received a rumbling purring as a reply.

* * *

The three of them were stretched across Ron's bed, with Hermione in the middle.

"You know, I just don't get it," Ron said suddenly. "Why even work at a school if you hate kids?"

"Oh, Ron," Hermione sighed. "I'm sure they don't _hate_ us."

Ron gave her a disbelieving stare. "If you're about to tell me that Filch, Pince, and Snape secretly adore us..."

"No. But they don't hate us. Professor Snape likes Slytherins who aren't total idiots well enough. And I once had a long conversation with Madam Pince that was almost pleasant. That is, until she seemed to _realize_ that it was almost pleasant, and promptly told me to check out a book or leave, and she seemed to prefer the latter."

Ron snickered.

"I notice you left out Filch," Harry pointed out.

Hermione hesitated. "Well... he seemed to adore Umbridge." It was a sign of how little Hermione respected Umbridge's teaching ability that she refused to grant the woman the title of Professor, which was far and away the most insulting (and in this case, accurate) thing Hermione could say about any teacher in polite conversation.

And it was interesting to note that Hermione even still addressed Sybill Trelawney as Professor... but she insisted that the subject Trelawney taught, at least, the _way_ Trelawney chose to teach it, was utterly pointless. Umbridge's lessons were pointless, regardless of both the subject _and_ who taught them.

"Filch adoring Umbridge is so not a recommendation," Ron snorted. "It's just further proof that he hates us, if he liked anything she did at Hogwarts."

"But it's not as if Mr. Filch would sell Harry out to Voldemort or anything," Hermione added reasonably.

Harry looked doubtful. "He might, if he thought it would keep me from tracking mud into the entrance hall after Quidditch games."

Hermione frowned. "That's really not funny."

"I agree!" Harry replied firmly, earning another snort from Ron.

"No, I mean, if you just practiced your banishing and scouring charms, that wouldn't even be an issue," Hermione clarified.

" _That's_ what you got out of that?" Ron asked incredulously.

Hermione ignored him. "All three have a necessary role to play at Hogwarts. Professor Snape is horrible to us, even when we do well in his class, but you can't pretend that you don't learn anything, based on how much worse he treats us when we don't try. Madam Pince can be a bit much, but as long as you're quiet, neat, and treat the library with respect, she's perfectly manageable. And as for Mr. Filch... he _is_ a bit suspicious of practically everyone, but you can't blame him for being a little paranoid. Think of how many Freds and Georges he's likely had to deal with over the years, not to mention the constant cleaning up after Peeves and Moaning Myrtle. Anyone would be in a rotten mood after all that."

"So why not quit?" Ron asked immediately.

Hermione shrugged. "Maybe he really likes his job, or being angry at us all of time. I've heard of people that keep themselves alive purely out of spite."

"And that's different from him hating us?" Harry asked. "How?"

"Ron may have had a point," Hermione admitted reluctantly, "when he said Mr. Filch might be jealous, as a Squib cleaning up after magical students. He might envy what so many of us can do without much effort, while he can't do it at all. And it probably doesn't help, the way some of us are so wasteful with magic. He manages to get everything done with nothing more than determination, some old-fashioned elbow grease, and only the occasional magical device. It's really inspiring when you think about it. It must take real nerve to do his job the way he does, in a school of magic."

"So, he _does_ hate us, you're just saying he's _justified_ in hating us," Harry concluded with a smirk.

Ron made a face. "Ugh, Hermione. First Lockhart, then Krum, and now Filch? We have _got_ to talk about your constantly falling standards."

Hermione glared at him. "I suppose we should, considering you're next on the list."

Harry couldn't help it, he roared with laughter while Ron sputtered, torn between fury and pleasure.

* * *

"Oh, Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris! Good morning!"

Argus Filch paused in his mopping of the entrance hall, frowning as the woman hurried into view with an awkward but hopeful smile on her face.

Mrs. Norris looked equally displeased, her tail twitching irritably.

"Morning, Professor Granger-Weasley," Filch said evenly, with a small incline of his head. His gaze went immediately to the trio of bushy-tailed, orange-furred kittens following in her wake.

She seemed to guess what he was thinking. "Not to worry, I adjusted their Anti-Shedding Charm just this morning." She leaned a little closer and winked. "I got your note about that."

He blinked. He'd expected her to be furious, frankly. People could be rather sensitive about their pets, and he would know. It was exactly why he hadn't said anything in person.

She glanced up and down the hall. "Excellent job on the floor, it's never looked cleaner!"

Filch stared at her, unimpressed by her attempts at conversation.

"Well, I'd best be going! Classes to teach, you know!" She gave him a little wave, which was not returned, and then hurried away.

The kittens, he noted with some alarm, did not follow their mistress, but instead seemed to be crowding around his beloved Mrs. Norris. She, like the oh so noble creature she was, refused all attempts at play and completely ignored them, until they gave up on her. The moment they were a safe distance away, she quickly moved to the opposite end of the entrance hall.

The only good things he could say for the kittens was that they indeed did not shed on his lovely, freshly-mopped floor, and also did not even leave pawprints on it. No matter how annoying he found Professor Granger-Weasley's misguided attempts at courtesy, he could unfortunately find no fault with the woman's spellwork. And the kittens, at least, correctly interpreted his withering glare as a sign that he was not to be approached.

It wasn't a permanent arrangement, he told himself over and over again. Professor Granger-Weasley was only taking a break from her work at the Ministry to teach for a single term. And she was only doing that as a favor to Headmisstress McGonagall.

So Filch went on with his mopping, with Mrs. Norris at one end of the hall, and the kittens named Molar, Bicuspid, and Incisor (though students thought of them primarily as Moe, Bi, and Ink Granger-Weasley) at the other. All of them continuously scanning the area for suspicious persons, although each had remarkably different standards as to who qualified as such.

* * *

Ron had been very surprised to learn that there was a cemetery on the edge of Hogsmeade, although he really shouldn't have been. People had been living in Hogsmeade long before he ever heard of it, so they surely must have been dying there for just as long. And, unfortunately, several people he'd gone to school with were now buried in that same cemetery. Most of them had died during Voldemort's assault on Hogwarts, and either there wouldn't have been enough room for them all to be buried at the school, or their families preferred the Hogsmeade cemetery for various reasons.

According to Hermione, there had just been so much death and disorder at the time, that unless a family was willing to personally pick up and transport their own dead, it was just easier for all involved if the nearest cemetery was the destination. Harry actually had offered to personally transport many of his fallen classmates, and while he was usually politely refused, he, along with Ron and Hermione, did end up as pallbearers at more than a few funerals.

Perhaps the most uncomfortable, for Ron, anyway, was Lavender Brown's. Because of many assurances from her best friend Parvati Patil, and Ron was certain that Parvati of all people would know best, they had it on good authority that Lavender had eventually gotten over any heartbreak that Ron had caused her. Ron could only say that in the year following their breakup, Lavender no longer seemed to actively hate the sight of him, although they were both more than a little preoccupied with surviving the threat of Voldemort at the time.

Hermione took Lavender's death rather hard, which surprised Ron only in the sense that if anyone should have felt the most guilt, it was him. He was the one that muttered Hermione's name in his sleep, after all. And anyone who thought that Hermione and Ron would stop being friends just because he was a git for a couple of months out of a year was always going to be disappointed, and thank goodness for that.

In any case, Ron always conjured some extra roses for Lavendar's grave when he visited. It would have been a stretch to say he had ever loved her, but she _had_ been his first girlfriend, and considering he'd only ever had two, and had no plans for a third, he wasn't likely to forget her.

It was during one of these trips that Ron got quite a shock, in the form of Madam Pince, rising to her feet after having been kneeling in front of a grave. His surprise must have shown on his face, or he was staring too hard, because she caught his gaze, frowned, turned, and quickly walked away.

Ron waited until he was certain she was gone, then practically ran to the grave, inspired to learn anything new about her thanks to this unexpected opportunity. But either he just didn't recognize the name, or he'd gotten the wrong grave. None of the names in the area she'd been standing looked familiar, anyway. And Ron wasn't sure that he wanted to bother writing them all down, just so he could look them up later. Hermione might have wanted to, and if she did, well, they weren't going anywhere.

With a shrug, Ron turned and walked away from Chastity Barebone's grave, having no idea that it was precisely the one he'd been looking for.

And it was only because he'd given up so quickly that Ron was treated to the equally shocking sight of Madam Pince, accompanied by Mr. Filch and Mrs. Norris, all leaving the cemetery together. Ron had never wished more to have one of those old Muggle instant cameras that his father always talked about. It would have been terribly obvious and they'd know what he was up to at once, but it would have been totally worth Disapparating in a hurry and risking another Splinching just to have photographic proof that all three saw each other outside of Hogwarts.

* * *

After nearly two hours, Harry slowly looked up from the file. "This is rather extensive, Tina."

Porpentina shrugged. "You've met Newt. Are you actually surprised?"

Harry opened his mouth, paused, and frowned.

She smirked. "You're trying to think of a polite way to say that you didn't think _people_ interested him to this degree, right?"

"Actually, I was trying to decide if this case counted more as a person plagued by a creature, or a creature run amok."

"Given the very real impact on people? Newt has always decided that it's a people matter. Of course, he brings a rather unique perspective to it. And it's a subject he isn't normally willing to leave to others. You're an exception, because we trust you-"

"And because you also trust Hermione to reign me in, and I'm one of the few people that might actually be in a position to encounter and capture an Obscurial alive." He shook his head. "Although I have to say, based on the estimates I see here, I think I'd rather take on another dragon."

"How do you work that out?"

"As much as I respect Newt, I'm not going to lose much sleep if I accidentally kill a dragon. I've seen too many people die in front of me. I've never really gotten used to it. And I'd be worried if I ever did." Harry paused. "And, you know, there's something curious about this file."

"Such as?" Porpentina asked.

"Well, I've had to read a lot of files. I think I know when one has been padded." Harry looked her in the eyes. "And it's even sort of obvious. This case is constantly referred to as a standard Obscurial encounter, but there are several references to an exceptional one. Newt only ever mentioned meeting the one, so where and when did he meet an exceptional Obscurial?"

"It's not in the file?"

"No."

"Then he didn't meet one. This represents everything that Newt knows about Obscurials, complied into a single file. He submitted a condensed version to both MACUSA and the British Ministry years ago. This one contains all his original notes. There's nothing else, Harry."

They stared at each other, during which Harry obviously knew she was lying, and Porpentina obviously knew that he knew she was lying, but also didn't care.

"And I suppose I can't take a copy of this?" Harry finally asked.

Porpentina shook her head. "I'm afraid not."

Harry hesitated. "Tina, we... you do consider me a friend, don't you?"

"Luna would be rather cross with me if I said I didn't."

"I can imagine, but I'm not asking about Luna," he said pointedly.

"Fine. Yes, Harry, I quite like you. A fact which has little bearing on me showing you this file. If, for example, I despised you, but still felt you needed to see the file, you would have. Fortunately, that isn't the case."

"Then I guess I'm wondering why you showed me the file. I understand why you could, just not why you would."

"I have my reasons, and Newt agrees. That's all I'm willing to say. Now, are you staying for dinner?"

Harry sighed, recognizing an abrupt and firm subject change when he heard one. "I'd really like to, but I did sort of sneak away during a lunch break to visit you, so people are going to be looking for me soon, if they aren't already."

"Are you going to get in trouble with Ginny over this?"

Harry grinned. "You think I'd vanish without telling her first? I happen to like living. She says hello, by the way."

* * *

There were several magical portraits hanging in Harry's office at the Ministry. Most had more or less come with the job, and were required, to some degree. He had only put up four of them himself, and each of the four was highly personal in nature.

First, there was the current Minister for Magic's portrait, which could be used to summon Harry directly to the Minister's office, and was thus also a required portrait. Hermione despised it, claiming she looked too serious in it, and that if the day ever came where she couldn't be bothered to visit her best friend in person, then he should promptly destroy the portrait. Harry would never, of course, but kept the portrait in a place of honor partially to annoy her, but mostly because its emotions were limited to frowning sternly and tutting loudly at suspiciously appropriate moments. He strongly suspected, but had never been able to confirm, that the previous Minister, Kingsley Shacklebolt, had commissioned the portrait. Either way, Kingsley had personally handed it to Harry as a welcoming gift.

Next, there was a portrait of Harry, Ron, and Hermione during their first year at Hogwarts. They had their arms around each other and huge grins on their faces. Ron, however, kept glancing at Hermione when she wasn't looking and shaking his head, as if wondering how Harry had convinced him to be friends with her. Hermione, on the other hand, kept frowning at Ron even when he was looking, as if mightily suppressing the urge to whip out a handkerchief and scrub his nose for dirt. And, admittedly, there was indeed a dark, slightly suspect spot on the left side, too big to be a collection of freckles.

The third was a rather wide portrait of the latest Weasley family gathering. It wasn't even close to being sufficient: people were constantly being jostled in and out of the frame, and Harry had to shift it to one side or another several times if he wanted to see everyone. It was particularly hard to catch sight of all of the younger kids, who kept ducking behind adults and giggling.

The last portrait was both disproportionately large and curiously placed: it took up nearly an entire wall, could easily have concealed a hidden tunnel, and yet did not, to Harry's knowledge.

It was a clearly new portrait of Arianna Dumbledore, distinct from the one still hanging in the Hog's Head Inn. Aberforth had shipped it to Harry less than a week after Harry first took office, along with a note threatening to visit, if Harry hadn't hung the portrait by a certain date. Harry had no reason to doubt this, and hung it up immediately.

He had been mildly uncomfortable in his office ever since.

Arianna was not a threatening presence, far from it. Mostly she would gaze serenely around the office, as if she had always only just then found herself there and was slightly in awe of that fact. Very rarely did she speak. These were never good conversations, however, because Arianna only ever spoke up when she felt Harry was making a mistake, so it was rather like a gentle mother scolding a naughty son.

Hermione had been thoroughly impressed by this revelation, so much so that Harry decided it had been a mistake to mention it to her. Really, he suspected that Hermione would like her Minister portrait much better if it had been enchanted to do the same. More so than it already was, anyway. And Harry was certain that Arianna was Aberforth's way of reminding him not to overlook certain things, or perhaps just to be mindful of the high cost of some mistakes.

The general impact was that Arianna's presence earned Harry some questionable glances, and he was certain that Aberforth had intended that. A large portrait of Albus Dumbledore in Harry's office, for example, would have required no explanation, though it might have been considered rather daring. But Harry had made a point of keeping the majority of his more private and most treasured photos at home.

Harry did his best to avoid starting conversations with Arianna. She was nearly life-sized as it was, and he feared it would be very easy to overlook that she was not, in fact, a person any longer, and beyond that, merely an artist's rendering of said person, so "she" had never been alive to begin with.

Somehow, it was easy to forget that when faced with the past in the form of a magical portrait, and Harry was not the only one who needed constant reminding. He would never mistake the portrait of Minister Hermione for his lovely best friend, despite its recentness and accuracy, but the smile on Hogwarts Hermione's face never failed to melt his heart just a bit. And in any case, Harry felt that the family portrait most closely represented the actual Hermione, and she agreed. And not just because Hogwarts Hermione retained her original teeth size.

* * *

Anyone who had ever been a student of Minerva McGonagall was accustomed to her being stern. This transferred well when she became Headmistress of Hogwarts, as it then meant that she really, _really_ didn't have to explain herself to anyone there.

So when Mr. Filch simply stopped coming to work one day, she assured everyone that she would handle it, and they had to assume that she had. A new caretaker was brought in: a young, eager fellow named Benjamin Creevey. He tended to whistle as he worked, was forever in a good mood, and was an instant hit with nearly everyone, except perhaps the grouchiest of Slytherins, and even they had to put some real effort into disliking him.

A few days later, the Headmistress announced that Mr. Filch had chosen to retire, would not be returning, and trusted that Benjamin had things well in hand.

In an apparently unrelated incident, a new tombstone was quietly added to the Hogsmeade cemetery, and Credence Barebone joined his sister Chastity in eternal sleep. Their most frequent visitors were Madam Pince and Mrs. Norris, whose fur, for unknown reasons, had abruptly turned bone-white. She was, rather noticeably, not as spry as she once had been. Madam Pince had taken to carrying the cat around in a wicker basket, and insisted on referring to her as "Ms. Norris", no doubt trying to ease her into life as a widow. And if Ms. Norris did not like this new treatment, she at least never complained, and never bothered to run away.

Perhaps Credence was not the only one who had learned the lesson that Modesty had tried to teach him so long ago. There was no escaping your real family. Not if they ever meant anything to you, and especially not if they hadn't wanted to be left behind in the first place.

 **The End.**

* * *

 **Endnotes:**

I would have liked a bit more backstory on Filch and Pince, if only to prove that this theory would be impossible. And yet, the more I tried to make the pieces fit, the more I found that it really wasn't hard at all to do so. And when I came across the theories on Arianna Dumbledore, well, I knew I had to do this. And if Fantastic Beasts 2 makes this impossible, more power to it. I'll still leave this up as a reminder of a time when Filch and Pince could have been something other than perfect strangers or lovers. And I hope they are something other than lovers, because nobody needs that mental image.

Although, if this theory proves true, which I doubt it will, then I have to say that I am terribly amused by the fact that Hagrid doesn't like Mrs. Norris. I suppose he'd be totally in love with her if they had managed to meet earlier, though.

So, as near as I can tell, when Newt got expelled from Hogwarts, Armando Dippet was not yet Headmaster, but Dumbledore was already teaching. Which leaves Phineas Nigellus Black as a likely suspect. But I can't imagine him being this welcoming, so the "Professor" here would likely be Dippet, as one of the few people at Hogwarts I can imagine that might know of Dumbledore's family history. Maybe I just don't want to imagine that Dippet was calling the shots when two beloved students got expelled. We gave him a pass on Hagrid, but Newt as well, would be pushing it. And Myrtle wasn't quite expelled... but she wasn't quite beloved, either, so I won't hold that against Dippet.


End file.
